Authors: Alice Duncan
She
cleared her throat and strode toward the counter. “Good morning, Mr.
Partington. I see you had your hair cut, at any rate.”
She
didn’t appreciate the way he eyed her coiled braids, and lifted her
chin to show him so. She’d show him even more on the Saturday after
next, when she had an appointment to have her hair styled in the afternoon—right
before she dressed for the new Mr. Partington’s first-ever Artistic
Evening. Her gown was to be delivered tomorrow afternoon. She smiled
inside, although she didn’t share her smile with Tom or Sylvester.
She didn’t feel like giving either of these aggravating males the
benefit of a pleasant expression.
“Good
morning again, Miss Montague. Yes, I got myself a haircut. None too
soon. Addison here and I were just discussing literature. He plans on
having his talents abused for the rest of his life.”
Sylvester
uttered an agitated sound that might have been a stifled roar of outrage.
Claire was sure she heard his teeth gnashing. She didn’t care. Nor
did she care to contribute to this particular conversation. She stared
at her employer stonily.
He
smiled back and asked, “Did you find some suitable lamps?”
Claire
decided it was unfair of God to have given Tom Partington such a glorious
smile. He was the masculine equivalent of Dianthe St. Sauvre, and Claire
resented it. So as not to succumb to the effects of his smile, she turned
away abruptly and said, “No.”
She
didn’t see him blink in astonishment, but she could guess at his reaction
by the silence that greeted her answer. She spared him a response. “No,
I concluded you should be the one to decide upon the furnishings for
your house, Mr. Partington. After all, this will be your first purchase
for your new home, and I thought you should have the final say. Sylvester
can show us some suitable lanterns,” she added, with a pointed look
at her friend.
“Oh.
All right then. Sure. Show us some lamps, Addison.”
“My
name
is Addison-Addison.”
Claire
finally condescended to offer Tom a tight smile. He took her arm and
they followed Sylvester to the lamps. Claire couldn’t recall another
time that Sylvester had walked in so stiff a manner. His usual pose
of world-weary languor had vanished entirely.
# # #
Tom
supposed he really shouldn’t have baited Sylvester Addison-Addison
the way he had. It was hard to resist, though, because the man was such
a nonsensical specimen of humankind. He wondered what the novelist would
do if he ever had to face real peril. Undoubtedly, he’d scream. Or
faint. Still, Tom knew Claire set quite a store by these boring artists
of hers; and he’d already riled her once today. Her pinched lips and
stern demeanor nudged him to try to jolly her out of her bad mood.
“I
think those lanterns we chose will be really pretty in the dining room,
Miss Montague,” he ventured with one of his patented smiles.
She’d
been maintaining her air of rigid dignity ever since she broke up what
might have become an all-out brawl in the mercantile. Not even the ever-so-proper
Claire Montague could withstand the Partington charm, though, Tom was
pleased to discover.
He
could tell she was trying not to smile when she said, “I believe you’re
right, Mr. Partington.”
“If
you’re not still mad at me, would you mind showing me the rest of
the town?”
Claire
responded to his roguish expression with a blush. Her brown eyes opened
wide beneath her spectacles, her thick lashes fluttered and her dark
brows rose. The sun struck her rattlesnakes and they shot burnished
sparks into the late-morning sky. Insecurity showed clearly on her face
and Tom’s heart quivered unexpectedly. He’d been mean to her, and
was sorry for it.
“Please
forgive me, Miss Montague. I truly didn’t intend to embarrass you.”
Her
dimple gave him hope—for what, he wasn’t sure. “Well, all right
then.” She slanted him a rather roguish look of her own. “Although
I’m sure I’m being far too easy on you.”
“I’m
sure you are.” And he was, too.
Nevertheless,
Claire condescended to give him a tour of Pyrite Springs. She pointed
out the cobbler’s shop, the butcher’s, the post office, the bank,
the local attorney’s office, the farrier (to whom Claire introduced
him), the bakery, the florist, the jewelry store, the livery, the Pyrite
Springs Hotel, the courthouse, the tobacconist’s (complete with a
ferociously painted wooden Indian) and even, from across the street
and with a moue of distaste, the Fool’s Gold Saloon.
They
had their lunch at Sam Wong’s Gem of the Orient, because Tom said
he’d never eaten Chinese food before.
“I
hope you’ll like it,” Claire said, nervously inspecting the menu.
“I’m quite fond of Chinese cuisine myself.”
Tom
thought it was sweet that she cared whether or not he’d like his lunch.
“Even if I don’t take a shine to it, Miss Montague, I will have
had a new experience, and that’s the important thing.”
“What
a marvelous attitude, Mr. Partington,” Claire exclaimed. She looked
startled for a moment, as if her thoughts had suddenly been diverted
onto some other course entirely. Then she gave a little shake and beamed
at him. “Yes, indeed. I think that’s the attitude we all need.”
A
little puzzled, Tom thanked her. She needn’t have worried. He enjoyed
his lunch.
# # #
Dianthe
dined with them that evening, and Claire was pleased to find the new
lamps did their job well. Even though Scruggs had again seated them
in the formal dining room, they could at least see each other and their
food.
It
had not taken her employer any time at all to restore himself in her
good graces, and she worried about that. Was she so easily swayed because
of some intrinsic flaw in her character? It seemed to her that if she
possessed true grit, she should have stayed annoyed for a little longer,
anyway.
For
some years, she hadn’t had occasion to think about her life before
Partington Place. Recently, however, her doubtful upbringing had been
fretting her a good deal. She’d believed she’d left her father’s
haphazard morals behind her; she’d forsaken them and him ten years
before.
Yet
in the past few days, she’d not only found herself being coddled out
of perfectly reasonable bad moods by nothing more than his smile, she’d
also told more falsehoods than she could remember having uttered in
ages. She’d lied and lied, and even drawn her friends into her lies.
She was, moreover, attempting to mislead her employer, to “put one
over on him,” in her father’s vulgar vernacular.
What
was even worse was that Claire knew Tom believed Gordon Partington to
have been the author of the books he hated so, and she had done nothing
to disabuse him of the notion. She was deliberately allowing him to
think poorly of his wonderful uncle, and Claire’s conscience ached
in consequence.
Eyeing
Dianthe askance, Claire knew her perfidy went even deeper. She had succumbed
to petty jealousy. Oh, she’d long since stopped wishing for Dianthe’s
graceful beauty. But with the advent of Tom Partington, Claire found
herself actually longing for Tom to look beneath Dianthe’s glorious
exterior and discover the poet underneath to be insipid. Claire knew
Dianthe was brilliant and she suspected her own shortcomings led her
to find Dianthe’s work inane. She knew it was base of her to want
Tom to find them silly, too. She did anyway.
At
least Tom’s comment about his Chinese luncheon had given her a good
idea about what to do with the forever-shrieking Miss Abigail Faithgood.
Rising
from the rocky floor of the cliff where she’d fallen, Miss Abigail
Faithgood clapped a hand over her mouth.
She would not scream again, no matter what horrors manifested themselves
before her. Watching the noble Tuscaloosa Tom, she vowed to be worthy
of his regard.
“Are
you all right, Miss Faithgood?” the chivalrous Tom inquired.
He thrust the bloody knife away from him, aghast at the violent acts
he’d been called upon to perform this day.
Squaring
her shoulders, Miss Abigail Faithgood lifted her chin and averred nobly,
“I shall be, Mr. Pardee. Lead on.
I shall not waver.”
There.
That should do it. If only her own problems were so easily solved.
“Is
everything all right, Miss Montague? Are you feeling well?”
Claire
hadn’t realized how heavily she’d sighed until the kind-hearted
Jedediah Silver asked about her health. Good heavens, she simply must
get a grip upon her nerves.
“I’m
fine, thank you, Mr. Silver. I was—just admiring the new lighting.”
“Yes,
it’s a pleasure to be able to see the food on one’s plate, isn’t
it?”
She
shared a gentle laugh with Jedediah and glanced at Tom under her lashes.
He looked amused and was staring straight at her, a circumstance that
made her pay attention to her crab soufflé.
“I
think Claire and Mr. Addison-Addison must have had a tiff today,”
Dianthe murmured in a voice as delicate as swans down.
Claire
looked up from her crab, guilt stabbing her like a knife. She had been
mean to Sylvester, and it was all because she’d allowed herself to
fall back into the evil ways she’d struggled so hard to overcome.
What a wicked web she’d begun to weave.
“Actually,
I’m afraid it was I who ruffled old Addison’s feathers this morning,
Miss St. Sauvre.”
Claire’s
gaze swung to Tom and she stared at him in astonishment.
“I’m
afraid I can’t resist teasing him because he takes himself so seriously.
He reminds me of some of the young boys I used to serve with in the
army.”
“Really?
How fascinating.”
Dianthe
batted her eyelashes at Tom, and Claire resisted the urge to throw a
dinner roll at her. “He can be difficult,” she muttered, trying
to keep her tone sweet.
“He’s
an insufferable bore, is what he is,” said Tom, not mincing words.
“Certainly
not insufferable, Mr. Partington,” Dianthe suggested gently.
“Well,
maybe only a bore,” Tom allowed with a grin.
“Which
certainly can’t be said for our present company.” Jedediah’s expression
spoke of worship. It was, of course, directed at Dianthe, who blushed
becomingly.
“Of
course not,” Tom mumbled right before he took a bite of his soufflé.
Claire’s
wine glass hit the table with a snap. “All the residents of the Pyrite
Arms are admirable artists,” she said when her dinner companions turned
to look at her. Her smile felt brittle; she hoped it didn’t show.
“I’m
sure that’s true, Miss Montague. Maybe I just don’t have a proper
appreciation for the arts.”
Claire
felt her eyes narrow and opened them up again. Just because she felt
guilty and touchy was no reason to be ill-humored. She couldn’t recall
the last time she’d had such a time governing her temper. “Don’t
you care for any type of literature, Mr. Partington? There must be some
writer somewhere who has managed to capture your fancy.”
“Yes.
I like to read. I’m fond of Mark Twain and Dickens. And I like Ouida’s
novels, too.”
“You
mean to say you prefer Ouida to McTeague?” Claire’s voice had risen,
and she made an effort to control her passion. But honestly! This was
a man who claimed he hated Clarence McTeague’s works, yet he liked
Ouida? Outrageous! Clarence McTeague was ten times the writer Ouida
was. Or, Claire meant,
she
was ten times the writer Ouida was.
Tom
shrugged.
“Really,
Mr. Partington, I fail to see why you should not respond to Clarence
McTeague’s works if you enjoy Ouida’s. At least McTeague’s works
aren’t totally fantastic.” She took a vicious bite of her crab.
“No?”
“Certainly
not. Why do you prefer Ouida over McTeague?”
“Well,
for one thing, Ouida hasn’t made my life miserable.”
“Oh.”
Her anger dissolved, and Claire studied her plate. Suddenly the scrumptious
meal Mrs. Philpott had prepared took on the flavor of ashes.
“But
that’s not the only reason.”
“No?”
She braced herself.
“McTeague
writes about places I know. Ouida writes about exotic places. Lush south-sea
islands and far-off Arabian deserts. The French Foreign Legion and adventure.”